Inevitability
by Paintastics
Summary: Death isn't beautiful; it's the ugliest truth in the world.


I often hear that these moments of death happen in slow motion; as if the mind is capable of configuring these things especially for you to see and commit to memory. But it wasn't like that, and I can swear to it. We didn't have any final knowing glances, I didn't feel any shared pain, he didn't assure me of the new adventure he was about embark on; all I knew was that the moment that shot went off, I had lost my best friend.

I held his hand, straining my ears for his voice which I never thought would run out. He begged me at one point to say something, for God's sake, just say something, but I had not. How could I possibly choose the last words which he would ever hear? The last link to life he'd ever know? I suppose it really didn't matter; not to him, not after the minute was up.

His hand slipped from mine. For whatever reason, I found myself gently placing my lips to his. I'm not sure why I did that, but I did. After a moment's time I parted, stood up, and wiped my hands of his blood.

I walked myself down to Scotland yard where I had my debriefing, answered questions and filled out my official witness's report. Lestrade met me on my way out and tried to console me on my loss. I replied simply that yes, I lost my biographer, but really, I hadn't lost much else. The cast-iron gates closed with him at my back, calling me the bastard child of a sinful whore.

Baker Street welcomed me with open arms as I made my way up the stairs into my sitting room and in front of the fire. I rung Mrs. Hudson for dinner. Just one tonight, and tomorrow night too, I had told her. She asked if Dr. Watson was seeing to a patient, and I replied curtly that he was not.

What I said went something like this: "He's dead, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid you'll only be making dinner for one from now on."

Her eyes quickly filled with tears, but I closed the door before it went further than that.

The food was awful, though I never cared much for the poor woman's cooking, and so sat somewhat despondently in my chair. I lit my pipe and inhaled a deep breath, the smoke burning my chest as I shot out the thick tendrils of blue smoke through my nostrils. My eyes burned from the heavy vapors but I didn't stop. I sat for some time in my solemn reverie.

I removed my pipe and neatly placed it in the rack over my mantlepiece. I then took up an unlit one and placed it between my lips, gazing into the fire. I puffed on the empty pipe, a slight, hollow sound filling my ears as a distinctly flavored air was rushed over my tongue. My lungs protested at the involuntary inhalation of ash. I payed no heed to the heaving which took place, my ribs crushing under the coughs I was soon forcing down. They soon became unbearable, my eyes started to water as I found it impossible to keep them open. I tried to ignore it, these fits always only lasting a few moments and never longer, until I realized that I wasn't coughing, but actually, I was sobbing.

When I realized what was happening, my sobs became uncontrollable as I sunk to my knees, arms wrapped tightly over my stomach, the pipe clenched between my teeth. I tried to keep silent but could not restrain the pathetic whimper with escaped my lips. I bit down my bottom lip, the pipe falling to the floor as I became blinded by tears.

Between numbly running my fingers through the fibers of the carpet and audibly voicing my sorrow, I began to curse Watson. I called him stupid, incompetent and selfish. I scrutinized his deplorable habits and his predictable actions, hating his damnable persistence and the way he came into my life. I hated that he made these rooms his home, I hated how easily I depended on him, I hated the way he was able to balance me out, and most of all, I hated him for making me love him. Anger quickly took over as I harshly groped round myself, fingers wrapping round the first thing I felt and hurled it into the fire. I screamed as the flames popped and cackled at my misery.

I lay in that emotionally induced state for an indeterminable amount of time. There were but two things which kept running through my mind; Watson's pipe burning in the flames, and that I was still here.


End file.
